


heartbeat in my fingertips

by RainyForecast



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky's long hair, Comfort, Fluff, Hair Brushing, M/M, Touch, Touch-Starved, no hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-30 22:53:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6445513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainyForecast/pseuds/RainyForecast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky’s hair is a wet tangle, and he’s still sore from his right arm getting violently dislocated during the mission. Steve notices him eyeing his fancy hair brush, and before he can stop himself, Steve finds himself asking, “You want a hand with your hair there, Buck?”<br/>“A hand? Really, Steve?”<br/>“You know what I mean."</p>
            </blockquote>





	heartbeat in my fingertips

Bucky’s hair is so long now. When Steve had first found him, tearing the muzzle from an assassin’s face to find the other half of himself, it had brushed Bucky’s shoulders. When Steve found him for the second time, standing at the back of a dead end alley in the rain, hollow-eyed and tired of running, it reached his collarbones. 

He trims it every once in awhile. With his throwing knives, Steve suspects. Barber’s chairs are probably out, forever. He’s never seen him go anywhere to get it done. Bucky seems to like his hair somewhere between the Hydra-puppet and wandering-traumatized-combat-veteran lengths. Steve is fascinated by the wave in it. Before (the word is always capitalized in Steve’s mind), Bucky’d worn it short and slicked back with pomade. Parted on the side. But this long, it has waves in it. Steve tries not to want to touch. He tells himself he is not oddly fascinated by the sight of Bucky with a hair tie between his teeth, gathering his hair up into a messy bun. He does not love how Bucky looks at the end of a long day of wearing his hair like that, strands of it falling loose around his face. Steve is not enamored with the way that there is a glint of ruddy chestnut in it when the sunlight hits it just so. 

Steve’s been an expert at denial all his life.

He is, after all, the bonehead who tried to enlist again and again despite multiple 4F classifications.  Bruce once mentioned the cliche that insanity was doing the same thing over and over, and expecting different results. Bucky had doubled over laughing, as much as the harness of the quinjet jumpseat had allowed. If razzing Steve made Bucky laugh like that, like Before, Steve would happily be the butt of every joke forever.

That episode wasn’t the only one chipping away at Steve’s vow not to harbor hope that this Bucky would ever be much like the Bucky he had known. 

Everyone had been sitting around a conference table, trying to pay attention to a debrief that nobody cared about. Bucky had been propping his chin on his folded arms, gazing up at Maria Hill with interest. Not that this had been making Steve’s stomach sink ever so slightly. Hill was fantastic. Bucky had always had good taste. But Buck didn't say something flirty to her or give her that damn heavy-lidded smirk of his. Instead he'd whispered, “Hey Hill, whaddya put in your hair that makes it so shiny?” Steve was struck with the memory of bottles of aftershave and Vitalis hair tonic and tubes of Brylcreem cluttering up the edge of Bucky’s sink. Of Bucky whistling and meticulously combing his hair before going out dancing on a Friday night. Bucky used to love looking good. 

It does Steve good to see a couple baffling jars and spray bottles appear in their shared bathroom. Hill has a serious regimen, apparently. However, Bucky’s hair is now glossy and smells like mangoes, which is a problem. 

The situation reaches a tipping point one night after a particularly arduous mission in South America that leaves the entire team exhausted, with mud every place it’s humanly possible to get mud. Steve and Bucky are finally back at their floor of the Avengers tower, and approximately half the dirt in Colombia has swirled down their shower drain. They’re blearily brushing their teeth at the same time, elbows bumping. Bucky’s hair is a wet tangle, and he’s still sore from his right arm getting violently dislocated during the mission. Steve notices him eyeing his fancy hair brush, and before he can stop himself, Steve finds himself asking, “You want a hand with your hair there, Buck?”

“A hand? Really, Steve?”

“You know what I mean,” Steve retorts. Bucky shrugs and jerks his head towards his hair stuff. 

“Knock yourself out.”

Steve has a strange, fluttery feeling of anticipation. The moment feels weighted, and he takes care in choosing what he wants. The brush. A navy blue hair tie. A spray in a bright orange bottle that says “detangler” on it. He’s pretty sure it’s the stuff that smells like mangos. Bucky is watching him in the mirror, face still and impassive. “Kitchen table?” Steve says quietly, and Bucky nods and follows him out of the bathroom. 

Steve sits Bucky down, and before he can lose his nerve, slides a hand under Bucky’s wet hair and lifts it, spraying the detangler over it like he’s seen Bucky do. He lets it fall and his fingers just brush the nape of Bucky’s neck. Steve swallows. He rakes his fingers through Bucky’s hair to work the product through. It smells syrupy, in a good way, and something about all this is making Steve feel shivery inside. He drags his fingers from Bucky’s crown to the ends of his hair, feeling the knots in it slide apart. Bucky lets out a deep sigh and tilts his head back, eyes closed. Steve’s heart leaps. Bucky doesn’t do this. He doesn’t relax and let people touch him like this, as far as Steve knows. He rakes his fingers through again, working his fingertips against Bucky’s scalp. Bucky leans back even further into the motion. Now Steve has the dark, wet spikes of Bucky’s eyelashes and the sharp planes of his cheekbones to deal with. 

Steve picks up the brush and sets to work, untangling the rest of the hair and brushing it smooth and glossy. Bucky continues to shift into Steve’s touch like a cat, and Steve didn’t know he needed this so badly. Or needed it at all. How long has it been, he wonders, since he touched someone gently like this, with no other purpose but to help or comfort them? Not for a mission or an undercover op. Not a casual handshake or a friendly clap on the shoulder. But touched someone like this. With-

With love. His hands go suddenly still and Bucky opens his eyes, craning his neck to look at him. “Stevie? Somethin’ wrong” Bucky asks, and Steve can only give him a stiff smile. He’s not sure what’s going on with him, only that the mere act of touching Bucky makes him feel like he’s going to fly apart. And not with want, or lust. Just...raw need. For more. To bury his face in Bucky’s neck, to have fingers scrub through his own hair. To have someone stroke a hand up and down his back like his Ma had on long nights when he was sick. But he can’t get the words out, doesn’t even know what the words for this would be, so he just shakes his head at Bucky and picks up the hair tie. He takes his time, makes it last. Makes sure to pull every strand neatly back and that the braid is as perfect as he can get it. Eventually though, he’s finished, and reluctantly loops the tie around the end. Steve steps back, aching, but Bucky doesn’t move or turn. 

“Bucky?” Steve asks, half-afraid Bucky is able to sense the weird thunderstorm of emotion Steve’s dealing with. Bucky doesn’t answer, but he’s reached back and is fumbling frantically with the hair tie. Confused, Steve watches as Bucky yanks his hair loose, shaking the perfect braid out, tangling everything back up again. Steve’s heart sinks. 

Bucky glares at Steve over his shoulder, a stubborn jut to his chin. Steve opens his mouth, apology on his tongue, but Bucky interrupts him. “Do it again,” he says, and Steve can see that even though he’s glaring, the set of his mouth says, “scared.” Steve blinks. 

“Something wrong with how I did it?” Steve asks. Bucky shakes the hair tie at him and pointedly turns back around. When Steve goes to take the tie, their fingers brush and Bucky, wonder of wonders, grabs at Steve’s hand. It’s Bucky’s metal hand, and Steve can feel the plates making nervous little shifting movements around Steve’s fingers. Steve melts. He folds his fingers through Bucky’s, and, taking a risk, leans down to lay his cheek against Bucky’s dark hair. “Thanks Buck,” he says, and trusts Bucky to know what he’s thanking him for. 

“Yeah,” Bucky replies, voice a little gravelly.

Steve lets unfamiliar happiness course through him. He feels light as he picks up the detangler again. The kitchen smells of mangos, the stove clock is blinking 3:17 AM at him, and James Buchanan Barnes is leaning into him with a faint smile on his lips. 

Nowhere else in this time or any other he’d rather be. 

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by rhien. It's our friendniversary this month! <3 you. 
> 
>  
> 
> I'm creaturesofnarrative on Tumblr! Come say hi.


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